Missed Opportunities
by mojor
Summary: Five almost-first-times when they got it wrong... and then, hopefully, the one time they finally got it right. Read alone one-shots. I hope they're all M.
1. The Nightclub

I started another one-shot (not this fic, a different one) and it somehow turned into another long crime-fic! (why do I do it to myself!). And now I'm 18,000 words in and I still don't have them where I want them. But I realised I write better with motivation! And i'm really not sure if it's the reviews or just knowing that someone is reading and waiting to see what happens next that makes me write faster, but it really does work to stop me procrastinating. So while I wait to get it tidy enough to start posting i came up with this quick one. It's still not a 'drunk Beckett in a club' fic, i really have to get to that, but it's what came out of my brain when i thought about her in a nightclub.

Un-beta'ed. If you see something wrong feel free to point it out.

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><p><span>Missed Opportunities<span>

Chapter 1- The Nightclub.

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><p>"Relax," she whispers into his ear.<p>

"This is not relaxing," he gestures wildly around him, his eyes far too wide.

The club is swarming with people and the music thuds in his chest. The crowd is, in general, a good ten years younger than he is and while Kate looks every inch at home, her body gliding to the music, he feels his playboy party days far behind him.

"Castle," she waits until he is looking at her, "Relax. It's okay to have some fun with this."

He chokes out a strangled laugh, "Fun?" He scruffs his hand through his hair and over his face. The sight of her in this unimaginably short skirt – and he's done quite a lot of imagining over the past four years – her hair curling around her almost bare shoulders, eyes highlighted in black and silver-blue; it's enough to light all kinds of fires inside him. But the distance she usually keeps between them has suddenly disappeared and he feels skin and heat and he thinks he can almost taste her she's so close.

She places her hands on his chest and he knows there's no way she can't feel the thundering of his heart. But she's smiling at him, her mouth quirked sideways in amusement, and he realises suddenly that she's _enjoyin_g this.

"Are _you_ having fun?" he squeaks out.

The hard edge of her shoe scrapes up the side of his calf. "I would have thought this scenario would have played out any number of times in your fantasies, Castle," she teases him.

She's right, of course, but in his fantasies he's so much more in control. He should know better; it's never taken much from her to make him lose control. "It's not quite the same in reality," he admits.

"Too much for you, Castle," she purrs.

"Or not enough," he says in a crazy moment of honesty.

She slides against him and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. Clearly she's not having the same hesitation; her hands haven't stopped moving over his chest and his shoulders and down along the length of his arms. He wants to tangle his hands in her hair, wants to feel what's it like to hold her with his palms splayed around each hip, he can't help the shock-inducing vision of running his hands up the sides of her thighs to disappear under her skirt.

"Did you want to dance?" her lips actually brush against his ear and her breasts press into his chest.

He closes his eyes and his brain almost shuts down. He wants her. Wants to press her into the wall and kiss her until she can do nothing but moan into his mouth. He's past the point of being able to play-act with her. The thought of dancing with her, at least the way her body is suggesting right now, is not even close to being fun.

He aches with arousal, and he hates that he's reduced to this. He'd happily turn up each day and be her partner; solve murders and stand at her side as she brings it to the bad guys. He respects her wall and accepts that she not ready for more. But it doesn't mean he's unaffected by her, and pressed together in this strobe-lit room there is far too much of her affecting him at the moment.

"Castle?" she's looking at him intently now, and seems to have dropped the playful seduction routine. Or maybe not – her arms snake around his waist and she leans into him; knees, thighs, hips, stomachs pressed together.

His hips flex forward in reflex, and he feels a growl work its way up his throat. He swallows it down and takes a breath, but the rise of his chest only serves to press them closer. He clenches his fists to stop himself from touching her. What he really wants is to slide his hands over the curve of her arse and pull her in against him.

Her back curves so that she can see his face and she studies him far too closely, her eyes dark and oh-so-alluring. She leans in again and he swears he can feel the vibration of her lips against his as she asks, "You want to get out of here?"

He fights to keep his body from betraying him and doesn't move at all. His hands remain at his side and he is hardly breathing. He really does want to leave; or they should at least take opposite ends of the bar. He's not going to have any chance of watching the entrance if she's within his line of sight.

"I'm going to go find Emerson and tell him we're heading out." Despite the fact that her tone is back to 'Beckett' it takes him several moments to catch up.

"We're leaving?" he can't hide the relief in his voice.

"Don't go anywhere," she instructs, and her fingers skitter across his stomach. And then his body is untethered without the weight of her against it and she is striding towards the bar.

He takes an unsteady step back and slumps against the wall, head tilted up, eyes closed. He takes a deep breath and thinks about blue chip funds, and the poor state of the economy, and his mother's latest play... and then he thinks about Ross McCulloch and the daughter he will never see turn twenty-one, and he thinks about Simon Anders and his wife who won't be coming home tonight, and Jill Ivernech who should have been starting her new job this week but was, instead, lying on a slab in Lanie's morgue.

They were the reasons he and Beckett and twelve other detectives had volunteered to help the 10th Precinct in maintaining a presence in the several nightclubs across lower Manhattan. It had sounded like fun when Gates had requested volunteers.

Castle watches his partner talking to the bartender, and realises his mistake; he had allowed himself to pretend the evening was a date from the moment he picked her up. Being behind the wheel of his Ferrari with her at his side had been more than enough to make the night feel outside of reality. But they'd come here for a reason and whether it was their case or not shouldn't make a difference – they had a job to do.

He pushes off the wall and strides to the bar. The bartender is passing Beckett her coat and he puts a hand out to stop him.

"We should stay until three like we said we would," he tells her.

He can see she's not convinced. The bartender has seen it before and he leaves them to make up their minds and moves instead to help the line of patrons looking for drinks.

She studies him, but it's _her_ expression that has changed. She seems suddenly annoyed and Castle tries to work out what he's done wrong. He'd have thought she'd have been pissed at him earlier for not having his head in the game, not _now_ when he is finally trying to be responsible.

"If we grab a table we can watch the bar, see if anyone else is sitting back watching the dancers."

"You want to stay?" she questions him. "You realise this is a total long-shot, right? The chance of any of their suspects showing up here, in this particular nightclub, is quite literally more than one hundred to one."

"Yeah, but if they do show up and we're not here to catch them..." he tries to decipher her frown, "I'd have thought you'd be the one to be telling _me_ this."

"Fine, Castle," she says, and her tone is bordering on anger. She brings her coat with her and marches back towards the tables that rim the outer wall of the club.

Castle watches her go; her long legs made dangerous by the five inch heels she wears with mastery.

He curses himself for being all kinds of stupid. She'd had her hands all over him not more than ten minutes ago, asking him to dance, inviting him to have fun with her... and instead of taking advantage of the situation he'd stood quaking in his boots like some thirty-year-old virgin.

He seriously considers ordering a drink, thinks again – they're on duty after all – and then decides 'to hell with it' and flags the bartender.

He arrives at the table with two shots of tequila and lime, a jug of light beer, and a bottle of water. He drags a stool around so that they both have a partial view of the bar and the dancefloor.

Beckett knocks back her shot in one go and frowns, "Tequila? Really? That's what you went with?"

"What's wrong with tequila?" he asks, more confused by the edge in her voice than the question itself.

She doesn't answer, and he follows her gaze across the room to see what has her attention; there's a group of three women chatting on the edge of the dancefloor, a crowd of barely legal college kids jumping and grinding together in a hard-to-follow pattern, and a couple who really need to get a room... no one overly suspicious, certainly no one matching the descriptions of their suspects.

He is more than willing to admit he's missed something; she's gone from flirty to focused in under five and he's not keeping up. It's not often these days that he manages to aggravate her this badly, and it's been months since he's done it without knowing why. They are usually so much more in sync; he's become better at anticipating what she needs from him, and she's gotten used to accepting his help.

And then it dawns on him; he's made her uncomfortable. They were supposed to blend in, dance, have a drink, and watch the other patrons. Less than an hour into the evening and he was already lost in a haze of lust. He's never really bothered to hide his attraction to her; lately he's not even taken much to hiding that it goes well beyond attraction. And it's not like she doesn't know the effect she has on him... but he can see now that he let the situation go further tonight than he should have. He should have suggested a friendly spin around the dancefloor, should have kept their long established boundaries in place, should have stopped looking at her arse and paid attention to the job they were here to do.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he says, feeling more than a little disappointed with himself.

"Sorry for what?" she asks. It reminds him of the way Meredith would call him out when he was dolling out random cure-all 'I'm sorry's in an attempt to appease her moods.

"If I was out of line earlier or if I made you uncomfortable," he waits and studies her poker face, hoping for clues. She's still not giving an inch. "You said it yourself, this scenario – me, you, dressed like –" he gestures lamely, "a nightclub... we're getting into hazardous territory," he tries for humour where solemn apology failed.

"Have you spent a fair amount of time in nightclubs with women wearing ridiculously short skirts, Castle?"

He has, he supposes, but so long ago it feels like another life time. He's not sure how he's supposed to answer so chooses honesty to be safe, "I suppose I have, although not recently."

"And let's imagine for a moment that one of those women has her hands on your chest, her mouth against your ear," she leans in close to make her point, "her body pressed against you," and, inexplicably, her hand is on his thigh to make her point, "and that woman asks you if you want to leave with her... what do you think you'd say?"

"I don't..." he starts and promptly stutters. The distracting weight of her hand disappears and he still doesn't have any clue what she's asking. Back when he frequented nightclubs he'd hardly have waited even that long before taking a woman home for the night. But she's not asking to taunt him, she's not asking out of idle curiosity, she's certainly not just making conversation; she's pissed at him, as if... "Are you talking about yourself? The woman in your scenario...?" he's not sure he wants to say it out loud just in case he's wrong.

"Who else am I going to be talking about? Was there another woman here tonight pressed up against you?" she asks, and she's not bothering to conceal her annoyance any longer.

Holy crap.

She downs his tequila in one throw. His mind promptly deserts him to do cartwheels across the grass, except, where does that leave him now?

"You wanted...?" he still can't bring himself to say it.

"You, Castle. I wanted you."

Holy mother of –

"Kate?" his voice is little more than a squeak. He looks around him frantically; are the boys here about to pull the world's cruellest prank? Is he, in fact, sleeping soundly at home having the most convoluted dream ever? "I'm not sure if I... I don't..." He can't find the words to express his total lack of understanding.

"You don't?" she says, but her voice is flat and it's almost a statement. She finally looks as confused as he feels, "But I thought... Since when?"

Since when, what?

And she's suddenly grabbing her coat and pushing away from the table. She's half way to the exit before Castle can get his feet to work.

He catches her at the door and they walk out into the cold night together. She hasn't put her coat on yet and he reaches for it, tugs it from her grasp, and holds it up for her. It takes a moment, a moment of her frozen in place, before he looks up at her face.

Her expression is a mask – blank – like nothing he has ever seen from her before, and if it weren't for the tears trailing down her cheeks he would have stepped back. But the tears, they make all the difference, and he steps forward and wraps his arms around her.

"Kate? Please... Please, I don't understand what's happened tonight. I hurt you, earlier, it didn't occur to me. I wasn't expecting it. But you have to know..."

She is stiff in his arms. He rubs up and down her back hoping to both soothe her and keep her warm; she's not wearing anywhere near enough clothing to be out in this weather. He waits, murmuring assurances and apologies, and eventually she starts to relax against him.

She shifts slightly and he realises she's wiping her face, her tears, on his shirt. "Let's just call it bad timing, Castle."

"No! Kate, look at me," he waits for her to lift up from his shoulder, "It wouldn't matter when you chose, it would always be the perfect time. I was trying so hard to ignore... what I mean is –" He casts around for the words to explain himself without sounding like a letch, "From the second you touched me in there I couldn't think straight."

"That was that plan, Castle."

"You don't need a plan, Kate," he tells her emphatically, "You just need to tell me what you want."

"Okay, let's just forget it and... I don't know. Let's just call it a night and head home."

Not wanting to risk misunderstanding her again, he asks, "Are you saying 'let's get out of here'?"

"No, Castle. I'm saying I'm going home. I'll see you tomorrow." She steps away, putting distance between them.

"Tomorrow? I think I liked your other plan better."

His reward is the tiniest hint of a smile, "It felt like a good plan earlier, now it just feels like a train wreck." She is already looking away, refusing to meet his eye.

"I'm not ready to go home yet, Kate. I'm not saying we should go to your place, although you really have to know how much I want that for us," he reaches out to close the broadening space between them, "What I _am_ saying is that walking away now – it feels like it would be a mistake. Can we go grab a coffee?"

"Coffee?"

"Or more tequila?"

"Coffee it is," she agrees.

He sighs in relief, and the weight that lifts from his chest is almost physical in relief.

He holds her jacket up for her again, and this time she lets him wrap it around her. He can't believe they're out here in the cold together. He can't believe that, if he hadn't misinterpreted her so incredibly badly, they could have been wrapped around each other in the back of a cab, or on her couch or, _my god_, in her bed.

He reaches for her hand, wraps it around the crook of his arm, and leads her along the sidewalk to the nearest cafe.

He doesn't want to think about it. But it feels like another missed opportunity.

They've only taken a half a dozen steps and he's already made himself a promise – he's not going to miss the next one.

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><p>AN- Castle! Stop being a gentleman and just grab her already!

I have a mental list of other 'first times that go wrong' or 'missed opportunities' that i'm going to write when i get stuck on the other story but it might be fun to get ideas if anyone wants to share...

And, I'm on twitter now (and half on livejournal). Come talk to me! Mojordreaming.


	2. The Old Haunt after a case

unbeta'ed. feel free to point out stuff i get wrong ;)

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><p><strong>Need<strong>

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><p>They are four shots in when she realises drinks probably weren't a good idea. After ten hours of nothing but coffee and adrenaline they should have chosen dinner. But the haunted looks in each of her teammate's eyes and the lingering fear curling in her own belly wouldn't be assuaged by anything less than alcohol – and lots of it.<p>

There are only so many times you can face your own mortality before you need a stiff drink. Only so many times you can stare up at desperate and distraught blue eyes before even one drink isn't enough.

So they stand together in a circle at the end of the bar knocking back shots until the tense silence is replaced by hysteria-edged laughter. One more drink and then finally Espo's hand rests on her shoulder, Ryan gives her a nudge, they share a round of "lucky you ducked", and "let's not do that again, boss", and "thanks, fellas".

She knows they should stop, but when another line of drinks appears as if by magic on the smooth wooden surface of the bar she reaches with everyone else. The burn in her throat, the fire in her belly, the hand that is still tangled and gripping tight at the back of her shirt; she's not ready to say no to any of it just yet.

Castle still hasn't spoken. He laughs along with their jokes, just as wide-eyed and unhinged as the rest of them, but the alcohol is only serving to heighten his anguish. Kate can feel his tension; almost see the panic radiating off him in waves. The boys handle it better, and Kate doesn't know if it's courtesy of their police training or just the fact that they aren't in love with her the way he is.

He doesn't need the jokes and the black-humour the detectives use to get through it. She knows that. He needs reassurances, and he needs her at his side; he needs to feel that she's alive. It's exactly what she has needed every time they've faced down death together, but for some reason neither of them ever asks for it.

So she shuffles closer, leans back into him a little; lets her weight fall against his arm. The hand that is scrunched into her shirt flexes as he seeks a new hold on her. But there is only her hip or her waist or the curve of her neck – she feels him waver, uncertain, his hand unable to settle, and then a strangled moan from deep in his chest.

She shoots at look at the boys. They grab their drinks and make noises about a round of darts, but their nod is one of understanding as they leave her with her partner. They've got both their backs, and while she'd lain on the ground fighting for air against the shock of impact on her vest they'd seen Castle relive his nightmare.

Kate drops her empty glass on the bar. Her hand stays clasped around it for a moment and she feels her eyes drift closed. She forces a slow breath and then she turns into him and lays her hands on his torso.

She feels the sudden rise of his chest as he sucks in a lungful of air. His heart is pounding under her palms, and she looks up at him.

"I'm okay, Castle," she needs him to _know _that she's breathing. Needs to break him out of the flash and play of memories that she knows he's tangled in. "We came out okay. We're gonna be fine." She murmurs, not knowing what else to say but knowing he needs to hear her voice.

"We're not okay, Kate. There's nothing about this that is okay."

She's surprised by the raw, broken quality of his voice. His eyes swim with it; the pain and the fear and the desperation.

"We_ will_ be okay."

"Will we?" He is studying her face, soaking in every detail, memorising and devouring her with his eyes.

She knows what he's asking. Can see it in his clouded gaze and feel it in the way his hands still seek to find purchase on her.

And she knows they will be – eventually – but she's never told him. She decides he has a right to know, now more than ever. "We will be, Castle," she promises, "You're not alone in this."

The wretched sob that breaks from him shouldn't surprise her, but it does. He buries his face in the curve of her neck and there is wetness on her skin even as his hands finally find a hold on her. He clutches at her waist and then envelopes her in his arms, crushing her to him – too hard – her bruised ribs cry out in protest but the pain of him against her is glorious. She presses up into the solid strength of him, wraps her own arms around his neck.

"We will be okay," she whispers to him again.

She feels his kisses then; his mouth open and wet and frantic against her throat. Kate relaxes her arms only enough to tilt her head into him, but he tenses at her movement, grips her tightly, growls into her skin.

"No, please," he begs of her, desperate and still broken.

"I'm here," she assures him, and presses her mouth to the side of his ear.

He finds her lips immediately, and for all the emotion he pours into her there is nothing gentle about his kisses.

His tongue winds its way into her, brandishing and claiming, his teeth nip and pull at her, he sucks the breath from her, and for the second time that day she is left winded and unable to breathe against the pressure in her chest.

She needs this as he much he does and meets every one of his demands with her own. Arching into him she pulls him fiercely against her so there is nothing between thighs and stomachs and chests and mouths but heat and friction and need.

"I'm here," she says into his mouth, and although the words are lost between them she can't stop talking. Murmurs of "I'm so sorry" and his name, a sigh of "Castle", repeated again and again are all she has to give him. Except for her kisses, and she refuses to withhold even those – not tonight.

"I love you, Kate." The words are unmistakable. He is more determined this time. He doesn't sound quite so confused. But it brings her instantly back to the shock of wide blue skies and wide blue eyes and the eerie calm of her life draining out of her.

She can't do that again, "I know, Castle, I know."

Their mouths still against each other, not moving away, content to rest with the puff of air against their lips connecting them.

She tangles her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. She can feel her own heart thundering against her ribs and the answering beat of his against her skin even through their clothing. The pounding in her ears seems somehow out of time with the beat of her heart and she wonders if together they've created their own rhythm.

His lips touch to hers again, tender for the first time, "Let me love you, Kate," he whispers, pleading.

She kisses him back. There really isn't any other option. "Come on," she agrees, and lets her hand slip from his neck to run along the length of his arm. Their fingers tangle. When she steps away he is at her back and they move together across the bar towards the door.

The cab ride home is strangely peaceful. She leans her head on his chest with one hand hooked around his neck. His arms wrap across her back and around her waist, his fingers tangle in her hair. It doesn't feel like anything needs to be said.

They walk hand in hand into her building. He holds her lightly against him in the elevator, his cheek resting against the top of her head. Their steps are slow as they walk the length of the hallway to her apartment, there's no hesitation, but frantic desperate need has been replaced by quiet acceptance.

The door clicks shut behind them. She doesn't bother with turning on the light; the apartment is never truly dark, lit with the glow of the city lights. She can see the lines across his forehead and the shadows under his eyes. With the flat of her palm she explores the planes of his face; across chin and cheek and temple. She watches as his eyes drift shut, and then drops a gentle kiss to his lips. He kisses her back; deep and languid and smooth.

She removes her coat, helps him shuffle out of his. He's too serious, and she wishes he would smile at her. Decides maybe that will come later; after.

She slips out of her shoes and then takes his hand, tugs him after her as she leads him up the stairs to her bedroom. He goes with her, the fight gone out of him. At the end of her bed she kisses him again; she wants him with her, in the moment. He responds to her like she knew he would. His hands under her shirt burn hot across her skin and she aches for him; for all the pain and the heartbreak and the love that he's had to endure alone.

She pulls back gently, nuzzles his cheek and the side of his nose, "Lay down," she tells him gently. He moves away from her and sits down on the edge of the bed. He watches her for a moment through half-closed eyes, and she can see the fatigue in the curve of his body; adrenaline-crash and alcohol combining to leave him exhausted and reeling.

"Kate?" so many questions in the whisper of her name.

"Let me get some water," she tells him, pushes him back on the bed, "I'll be straight back," she promises. He lies down against her pillows and she pulls off his shoes. He smiles then, more relief than happiness, but it's enough.

Once in the bathroom Kate washes her face, and fills a glass of water, before staring back at her own image in the mirror. She's not sure they're making the right decision, but she can't walk away from him again; can't leave him to shoulder the burden of love and life and loss on his own.

She needs to tell him that she loves him back. Needs him to know that she's fighting her own battles, but she won't give up until she can be the woman she knows he deserves.

She turns off the light and steps back into her bedroom, unbuttoning her shirt as she goes. His eyes are closed, and she's surprised he's not looking at her, watching her undress for him. She pauses, and hears the steady rasp of his breathing.

She removes her shirt, and her jeans, takes off her bra, finds a singlet on the dresser and slips it on before stepping quietly to the side of the bed. She crawls over to him, unbuttons his jeans and tugs them from his hips and along the length of his legs. He hardly stirs, but her name escapes his lips with a sigh. She tugs the blanket out from underneath him and settles herself against him before pulling the blankets up to their chins. He rolls towards her, his arm snakes around her waist drawing her in tight. She lies against him and lets his warmth and the steady beat of his heart soothe her.

"I love you, too," she whispers against his skin.

The brush of lips across her forehead makes her smile.

Together they sleep.

.

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><p>.<p>

**A/N** – i'm going to hold out hope that they've not totally missed out on any opportunities here... and i don't necessarily think they got it 'wrong' but my mental criteria when i started this was "first times that didn't happen" so i suppose it fits.

I'm not good with angst, and i don't generally like to write it, but this helped me to get it out of my system so i could make sure i didn't go there with Erosion. ;p


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